"Where is she now?"
"Gone for a moonlight stroll with Phil. He's decidedly taken with her."
"Yes, I know it. He said so on the way up here. He thinks she's a fine girl—and he admires those careless, unconventional ways of hers."
"Well, I don't," Patty sighed. "I like Azalea for lots of things,—she's good company and kind-hearted,—and she's devoted to Baby,—but I can't like those free and easy manners! But she's a whole lot better than when she first came! Then she was really a wild Indian! I've been able to tone her down a little."
"You've done wonders for her, Patty. She ought to be very grateful."
Patty made a wry face. "No, she isn't grateful. People never are grateful for that sort of thing. And she doesn't even know she's different! I've had to train her without her own knowledge! But she's chameleon-like, in some ways, and she picks up a lot just from being with mannerly people."
"She does indeed! She's quite correct now,—in her actual doings. It's only in some burst of enthusiasm that she oversteps the bounds of propriety. Well, that's all. I thought I'd tell you,—for it isn't right that you shouldn't know. And there's no mistake. There's only one Azalea Thorpe."
"Was her name on the programme?"
"No; she didn't have a star part,—not even a named part. She was one of a crowd,—cowboys, ranch girls, and a general horde of 'woollies.' Don't accuse her of it, Patty; get around her and see what she says."
"Goodness, Mona, give me credit for a little tact! I'll find out in the best way. What was the name of the play?"